


Acidic Genius, Reactive Activist

by aleyha



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleyha/pseuds/aleyha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dollhouse AU. Neuroscience major Bennett Halvorsen is found dead in a lab. Detective Langton and Tony Ceccoli investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acidic Genius, Reactive Activist

_Forty minutes past nine, in the pm_

The lab is quiet as she works, only the tap-tap-tap of her right-hand fingers running across the customized keyboard making any sound, occasionally pausing to allow for further inspection of the grey mass lying on the work-table. A human brain: twenty-seven years lived, three weeks dead, formerly possessed by an amateur cyclist. It is late, and Bennett is the only one left in the building. 

The sudden opening of the door at the back of the lab startles her, and she almost slices completely through the dead twenty-seven year old, the scalpel luckily only chipping off a small layer of the occipital lobe. Twisting, she's surprised to see Caroline marching into the room, a far-too familiar determined look gracing her sharply defined face. A shiver runs through her, and although it is practically dead, she swears her left arm starts prickling. 

"I see you found my schematics," she says casually, although a hard edge underlies her voice. Caroline walks around Bennett to lean against the work-table, looking over the array of lab equipment littered in between them. Bennett turns back to her computer, staring at the black figures lining the screen, though her brain doesn't process them, for once. When she speaks, her voice quivers slightly in the rush. 

"I don't believe I know what you're talking about." 

"Like hell you do," Caroline answers, banging down on the table with her fist, making Bennett jump again. "The Rossum HQ blueprints? The bomb-assembling instructions? Don't lie to me." 

“I’m sorry, but I don't know what you want me to say. I'm busy," Bennett says, swinging her dead arm to gesture towards the organ. "This brain needs me." 

"That brain is dead. Mine’s the one that needs you to pay attention," Caroline says, nearly shouting now, and Bennett finally raises her eyes to meet Caroline’s, clumsily removing her glasses to let them hang around her neck. "Are you going tell someone?" 

"I should. It's wrong, what you're doing. My arm presents itself as evidence. It wants me to tell," Bennett says, turning away from Caroline again, and walking over to another table where a stack of papers are lying, and starts to ruffle through them. Her next words come out in a small whisper, barely even stirring the air. "It's wrong. Wrong." 

A whoosh of air, and Caroline is standing behind her, so close Bennett can feel the heat of her breath against her neck. The next words are deafening. "You won't tell." 

The "Why not?" making it's way out of Bennett's mouth is choked by Caroline's fingers snaking themselves around her neck, the newly manicured nails cutting into her fragile, vitamin-D depleted skin. Instinct kicks in and her elbow kicks back, bone meeting bone as she hits a rib, and Caroline doubles, slackening her grip. Bennett wrenches herself from her grasp, and starts running to the other side of the room, reaching out for her scalpel, but before she reaches it, Caroline pulls at her shirt, grasping it with surprising strength, and Bennett falls, her head hitting the solid metal of the work table. Blood trickles down into her eyes, and all is black. 

_The following morning_

“The victim’s name, Ceccoli?”

“Bennett Halverson. Twenty years old. Neuroscience major. Proper genius, was off to the Nobel Prize Award Ceremony next week, apparently,” Anthony — Tony — Ceccoli answers, briefly looking up from the paperwork strewn across the table to address his superior, Detective Boyd Langton. A tall man with a distinctively broad nose, his dark skin slightly freckled and age starting to show, Boyd remains as good at his job as ever. The scene before him counts as one of the more interesting cases in his two-and-a-half-decade-long career, and brow creased in concern, he kneels down to inspect the victim as she still lies. The pale skin is streaked with the muddy color of dried blood, and Boyd imagines he can still see the hint of pain twisting her face, despite it long since having slackened, died. 

“Huh. What for?” Boyd asks, looking impressed. She was remarkably, tragically young. 

“Invention of some kind, measures neuroplasticity. I wouldn’t even attempt to try to understand it.” 

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t,” he says plainly with a small smile, before standing again. ”Well, the head trauma certainly didn’t kill her. Wound isn’t deep enough.”. 

“No, that would be the hydrochloric acid,” Tony says, leaning down to pick up the pieces of glass spread out over the floor. Two of them are labeled; the smaller of the pieces spelling “Hydr”, the other finishing the phrase. “Check her mouth.” 

The seared, inflamed flesh lining her throat confirms the theory. 

“Well, it’s a sloppy job. Whoever did this was in a rush, was scared. Definitely not a planned attack,” Boyd says, looking around at the mess of the laboratory, and the shattered pieces of glass. It was stupid leaving them there. 

“I guess whoever it was figured we’d discover the cause of death easily enough,” Tony suggests, shrugging.  

“Well, collect the pieces, have them analyzed, see if you can find any matches for the prints. I’ll go start the interrogations.” With that Boyd leaves the room, leaving the medics to pick up the body. 

 

_Two hours later_

“What do you have?” Boyd says, striding into the room Anthony has been working in, looking over the security footage. “The results in yet?” 

“No prints to be found, sir, other than Ms Halverson’s, although they’re thickly layered. Not surprising, she must have been using it when she was killed. It would certainly confirm your theory re a hot-blooded murder. Would’ve been the closest thing available, although I suppose the scalpel would have been just as useful, and probably easier to use. No clue why they chose the acid instead, although it’s hardly relevant.” 

“We don’t know that,” Boyd says, giving him a sharp look. “Anything, everything is relevant. For example: if it was so in the moment, why aren’t the murderer’s fingerprints showing? It would be a rare person that remembered to put on gloves of some kind in such short notice, no matter if they were in a laboratory and gloves were undoubtedly close-by. And considering the crime scene, it was messy, and someone sloppy enough to leave behind the murder weapon isn’t one to take such precautions as gloves.”  

They both mull over this for a moment, before Tony breaks the silence. “Whoever it was must have figured if they were wearing gloves, there was no point in trying to hide the weapon. That’s the best as I can figure it, anyway. It doesn’t really add up, though. Why would Halverson be using hydrochloric acid when dissecting a brain?” 

“The prints on the beaker needn’t be recent,” Boyd points out as he finally sits himself down at the table, massaging his temples and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. 

“Then why not just use the scalpel? Why go looking for the acid?” With that, Tony goes back to looking over the footage. A moment later, he groans loudly. Boyd sits up abruptly in response, worried dark brown eyes meeting their likeness in Tony’s irritated ones. 

“Footage is missing, starting from round about the hour of estimated time of death,” he explains, demonstrating his findings to Boyd. 

“Of course it is.” Boyd sighs heavily. “I guess I’ll have to go continue grilling the could-be suspects.” 

“How’s that going, by the way?” 

“Well, I’m starting to form a list anyway. Topher Brink and Dr Claire Saunders have both accused the other. Dr Saunders is one of Halverson’s professors, Brink is her assistant. No clue why, considering they seem to despise each other. According to Saunders, Brink has been madly in love with Halvorsen, but was recently beat out of winning the prize giving her the trip to Stockholm. Saunders believes his ego can’t deal with it and he feels betrayed. Brink insists Saunders felt jealous of Halverson, losing her place as the country’s neuroscience darling. Says Saunders feels irrelevant,” Boyd says, standing up at the end of his soliloquy to head back towards the door. 

“And what do you think?” 

“Well, Adelle DeWitt, director of the Neuroscience program at UCLA, has confirmed that both person’s description of the other is somewhat accurate, if a bit exaggerated. None of them have an alibi. That doesn’t mean either’s the murderer, of course. Personally, I don’t believe either did it. Topher seemed to love her too much, and Saunders doesn’t have a strong enough motive, nor the profile. DeWitt also mentioned someone else, however: Caroline Farrell. Apparently she’s been in some trouble in the past, and there’s been a definite rift between the two girls for the past five months, ever since the accident resulting in Halverson losing all connection to her left arm. It was quite traumatic, if I understand it correctly.”

“The explosion at Rossum?” Tony asks. A nod from Boyd awakens a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Are you interrogating Caroline next? Can I come with?” 

“If you like,” Boyd says simply, walking through the door, Tony following eagerly. 

 

 

_Thirty-nine minutes pass_

“I already told you, I didn’t do it!” Caroline shouts, messily pushing her hair out of her eyes with one hand, the other clenched in a fist at her side. She’s been sitting in an interrogation room for well over half an hour, she’s late for her ethics class, and she’s just been accused of murder. Not exactly her definition of a good day. 

It doesn’t help that she has other cause to feel worried, and she can tell they can tell that she’s hiding something.

_“_ You know, it was probably Topher Brink, the sick bastard. I swear that guy’s, like, a sociopath or something. No morals. Or maybe the crazy bitch killed herself. All I know is, it wasn’t me.” 

“You and Bennett Halvorsen were roommates, were you not?” Tony asked, his eyes steadily boring into hers. “And according to Adelle DeWitt, the two of you used to be very close, up until about five months back, anyway. What happened during that explosion, Caroline? ‘ _Crazy bitch_ ’; that’s quite strong language for someone who used to be your best friend.” 

“Life happens. Bennett blames — _blamed —_ me for the explosion, insisted I killed her arm,” Caroline spits out, crossing her arms defensively. “She was delusional, for fuck’s sake. Genius, sure, but as everyone knows; the genius gene usually goes hand-in-hand with the crazy gene.” 

Boyd and Tony exchange a look before they both file out of the room. 

“She’s definitely hiding something,” Boyd says, frowning. 

“She has an alibi,” Tony points out. “Maybe it’s worth chatting with her friends? What were their names now again…?” He looks down at his notes, flipping through a couple of pages to find the names. “According to Caroline, at ten o’ clock last night, she met up with Priya Tsetsang and Madeline Costley at a dive bar, not far from the lab.” 

Boyd nods decisively. “Then let’s go see if her story meshes with theirs.” 

 

_The long hand swings in a semi-circle_

The girls sitting at the table before them look confused. Nervous, naturally, but mostly just confused. Madeline Costley and Priya Tsetsang. Both are beautiful, Priya astoundingly so, with golden streaked hair, unnaturally smooth skin, elegantly slanted eyes and near flawless bone structure. Clearing his throat, Tony glances at Boyd. He’s standing behind, straight-backed as ever, vigilant eyes surveying the pair at the table. A nod prompts Tony to start. 

“Do either of you girls know why you are here?” 

“Is it to do with Bennett’s death?” Priya asks, and he’s surprised to hear an Aussie accent accompanying the words. Flashing back to sandy beaches, sun-kissed skin and countless adrenalin rushes, Tony smiles dreamily, before he’s pulled back to earth by Priya continuing,“I promise, we had nothing to do with that. We didn’t even know her that well.”

“But your friend, Caroline Farrell, she knew her quite well, did she not?”

“You think Caroline had something to do with this?” This time Madeline is the one to speak, her voice soft, her startlingly blue eyes widening. Tony ignores the question, briefly looking down at his notes before continuing, his eyes first meeting Madeline’s, then settling on Priya’s. 

“What were the two of you doing last night, between nine and eleven pm?” 

“Uh, the two of us were at Beacon, meeting some other people from the department,” Priya answers. 

“What department?” 

“Art.” 

“We both major in it,” Madeline explains, Priya nodding in agreement. “Caroline joined us around ten, stayed with us for the rest of the evening.”

“Does Caroline also major in Art?” Tony asks. Two resounding denials prompt him to continue: “Then I assume you hadn’t planned to meet her?”

“No, but she knows a lot of the people in the program,” Madeline says. “A bunch of us are in the same activist group.” 

“So others would be able to confirm that story then,” Tony mutters. “Very well. Can either of you think of anyone who would have cause to kill Halverson?” 

“I don’t know…” Priya says, biting her lip. She looks over at Madeline, who looks equally clueless, before glancing back at Tony. “Dr Saunders, maybe?” 

“Why would Dr Saunders kill Bennett?” Madeline asks, her brow creasing. 

“Caroline mentioned that Bennett mentioned, before they fell out that is, that Dr Saunders has resented her for a while. And she’s always creeped Caroline out a bit. She’s kind of distant, and she has those scars.” Priya shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t really think of anyone else.” 

“What about Topher Brink?” 

Tony watches on calmly as the two girls talk, Boyd doing the same in the background, intently watching the proceedings. 

“Isn’t he in love with Bennett?” 

“Maybe she rejected him? That can do something to a person,” Madeline says, crossing her arms defensively. Tony narrows his eyes. Personal experience, perhaps? 

“Didn’t Bennett like him back though? Why would she reject him?” Priya argues, and Madeline only shrugs in response. 

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anyone else.” 

“Caroline didn’t do it though,” Priya says, turning back to Tony, her voice gaining a fiercer edge. She obviously believes what she’s saying. “She’s the most righteous, good-hearted person I know. No way she’d ever murder anyone.” 

Madeline nods fervently in agreement. “She practically single-handedly founded our group and she’s always been the most vocal advocate of pretty much anything wrong with the world. Right now she’s got this campaign going on against the Rossum Corporation. She’s convinced they’re doing illegal animal testing,” she says, obviously believing she’s making a point. _“Bennet blamed me for the explosion.”_ Tony catches Boyd’s eye, both clearly thinking of the same thing. 

“All right, that would be all for today,” Tony says, rising from his seat. “Thank you for your cooperation, you’ve been very helpful.” 

Smiling at the girls, he ushers them out of the room, holding the door open for them. Priya blushes a timid thank you, giving him a small wave as they make their way out into the reception area. 

“Halverson had a job interview with Rossum next week, did she not?” Tony asks Boyd once they’re alone in the interrogation room.

“She did. I think it’s time we visited Caroline in her dorm room,” Boyd says, a spark of suspicion glinting in his eye. 

 

_Seventeen hours after the death_

 The dorm-room is empty when they arrive. Unlocked, they easily get in. It’s obvious which girl lives where. _Lived in Halverson’s case._ Boyd looks around the room, noting each girl’s collection of books, Halvorsen’s significantly larger, hers filled with books on the various sciences, focusing on the brain in particular, whilst Caroline’s is a more eclectic mix; everything from romance to politics is covered, biographies and sociology text-books brushing covers. The room is mostly dominated by shades of pink and purple, Caroline’s side more than Halvorsen’s, where darker shades of blue and green have started to creep in, take over. 

“You check out the dresser and the closet,” Boyd says, pointing towards the slightly open door opposite the two beds, a mass of clothes threatening to fall out, most of them looking to be Caroline’s. “I’ll take the desk.”

Just as Boyd is about to start rummaging through the top drawer of the desk, the door opens from behind them, and Caroline walks in. 

“What are you doing?” she yells, her normally hoarse tones now remarkably high-pitched, and she runs forward, dropping the book-bag she had been holding, and pulling at Boyd’s arm. “You can’t do that! You need a warrant, or something.” 

“We have one,” Boyd says calmly, ignoring the hand clawing onto his bicep, closing the first drawer ( _nothing more than pencils, lip balm, energy bars_ ), and leaning down to open the next one. 

“There’s nothing there!” she says fervently, and she pulls harder at him, to the point where Boyd is forced to turn around and face the girl, who’s mouth is scowling despite her wide, panicked eyes. 

“Somehow I doubt that.” Before he’s able to turn back again, a fist flies at his face with surprising strength, and they both cry out in pain. Another comes in quick succession, but before the third punch makes contact, however, Caroline’s arm is grabbed from behind, Tony coming up to pull her off his superior, twisting her arms backwards and holding them in a steely grip. 

Boyd, having quickly recovered from the punches, despite the trickle of blood running into his mouth, nods his thanks at Tony, before turning around and pulling open the drawer. What he finds is more than he could have imagined; complete blueprints of the Rossum corporation headquarters in LA, an instruction leaflet on assembling a bomb, and a meticulously kept journal outlining her plans.  

 

_Two days later_  

Caroline Farrell is convicted for the murder of Bennett Halvorsen, the terrorist attack on the Rossum building in Tucson five months earlier, and plans of the same for their building in Los Angeles. The case is closed. 

 

_Two days and seventeen hours earlier_

Bennett Halverson touches her right hand to the still bleeding wound right above her hairline, wincing slightly. A moment later she surveys the now empty lab, making sure it looks exactly as it did before she blacked out. She washes her hands, slips on a new pair of gloves, tampers with the security camera, positions herself in front of the worktable, and picks up the beaker filled with colorless liquid. For a long moment she stares unseeingly at the neatly printed label on the glass, dispassionately considering her final drink. 

“To Caroline,” she toasts, before raising the beaker to her lips.   

 

FIN  

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this for a school assignment a couple of months ago; we had to write a short story with a twist, and as I was in the middle of binging on Dollhouse for the first time, this is what happened. It's not exactly my best work ever, but I hope you liked it :)


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